Review of 2008

Well, it's almost the end of another year, so it's time to review some of the little things that have made me smile over the last year. It's been quite a fraught and stressful year at times (although the insurance company has finally paid up for the accident in August thanks in no small measure to our wonderful friend Roger), but there have been some small moments in passing that stand out.

1) My lovely ex-colleague Rachael is very bright - a PhD in fact - but sometimes the obvious escapes her. Like the time she was doing some paperwork and asked me "What's the date?" I replied "It's the 4th". A slight pause, then " So when's the 6th?" "Two days' time". Another pause. "Are you sure?"

2) Checking Luc's questions on his ebay sales when his items were described as "10 x 12g canisters of CO2" I saw two questions from different people on the same evening. Question 1 was "Are they unused?" (well, if they'd been used they wouldn't have CO2 in them any more, would they?) and question 2 was "Do I get 10?"

3) A rather flustered hotel waiter (and who wouldn't be flustered having to serve my entire family for two consecutive meals?) in Spalding stumbled and commented "I nearly dropped the whole tray!" to which my brother Nic mumbled in return "Dropping half the tray would have been a better trick."

4) Being told about a lunchtime conversation between my former colleagues a couple of months after I'd left. They were discussing reincarnation, and one person said "If I'm ever reincarnated I'd like to come back as a cat". To which someone else replied "I want to come back as Jane's cat!" Ok, I admit they are both a bit indulged, but then they're both rescued and they do plenty for us by their presence. And on that note ....

5) Waking up one morning to find I couldn't move. There was nothing physically wrong with me, but Snowball was curled up on my upper back and Dyson was between my legs and across my ankles.

6) Three of us spent a very pleasant afternoon at a Feline Park. After a couple of hours, the felinae and pantherinae jokes kicked in, for example "I wouldn't believe anything that animal tells you - he's lion" and "You'll like the next enclosure. Ocelot, but you'll like it. " After a short while our friend had had enough, and stomped off a few paces ahead. So Luc turned to me and said (just loud enough to be heard by friend) "You know her problem? She has no sense of puma!"

7) At a car show, we came across one of those bright, shiny, over-accesorised "boy toys" you sometimes see about the place (to be precise, it was a PT Cruiser - but then it would be) - eliciting the comment "Cor! Look at the Halfords on that!"

8) After Luc's spectacular shooting at the French harvest festival ('First impressions and a festival', September 08) the young boy who had been watching him (and had overheard me speaking French to the man in charge of the gallery) asked me "Il est Anglais?" "Non, il est Gallois". "Oooohh!" A true hero was born, in the form of a Welsh marksman, clearly a survivor of English oppression!

9) Both our cats like to check out anything we're eating, which usually means coming over for a good sniff and then wandering off to have a grooming session in the middle of the room. This grooming was especially necessary after the item of interest - vigorously sniffed by Dyson - was a box of Turkish Delight. Icing sugar on a wet nose takes some effort to remove.

10) The morning after the Captain Hilts episode ('You'll still be here when I get out?', December 08), Luc 'phoned a reptile rescue and adoption centre to ask about adopting a Bearded Dragon expecting the usual questions to establish whether he was serious, equipped and capable of looking after one. Except the questions never arose after a conversation which went something like this.

Rescue centre: I'll give you the name of the lady you need to speak to."

Luc: "Can you hold on while I ... "

Rescue centre (interrupting): "..... get a pen."

Luc: "No. Get a millipede off my desk."

Rescue centre (after a slight pause): "As you do ....."

11) Getting Spot the gecko with Bruce and Sheila (the two beardies). He's not the most sociable of animals, but then neither are we.


And that about wraps it up for 2008. Unless, of course, something happens in the next few days, so don't hold me to that.

Spot the Gecko

The title is not a competition; it's an introduction.

Meet Spot, who's a leopard gecko.

When Luc went to the rescue centre to discuss adopting bearded dragons (not breaded dragons, which is a mis-typing and an entirely different concept) there was a tail-less leopard gecko there as well - and when I say tail-less I don't mean that it was broken off and in the process of regrowing; I mean it is totally gone, will never regrow, and he has a - well, blob - where it should be. Which means he isn't exactly a hot certainty for adoption.

We got the vivarium ready for the two new bearded dragons last week and, at the same time, set up a small holding tank .....

On Saturday we drove out to the rescue centre and collected the two bearded dragons, Bruce and Sheila, who are beautiful. Then we just happened to say "If you ever think of rehoming the leopard gecko.."

We didn't get to finish the sentence.

"Do you want him?"

So Spot came home with us as well. As you can see from the photograph, he's really handsome, with wonderful eyes and perfect leopard markings. He just happens to have a blob rather than a tail.

And as the lady in the rescue centre pointed out, the pale centre of the blob is heart-shaped.

You'll still be here when I get out?

I got quite a surprise this morning. I came downstairs, fed the cats, went to switch on the pc ….. and found a millipede sitting on the keyboard, eating half a tomato.

Ok, so it was in a clear box, but it’s still not quite what I expect at 6.20 in the morning.

Under the box was a sheet of paper bearing the name ‘Captain Hilts’.

Having now found out exactly what happened last night, I agree that this is the perfect name for our previously un-named millipede. I’m also aware that the surprise I got this morning wasn’t nearly as big as the one Luc got last night.

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Now for a bit of background. In the corner of the living room is a glass tank with a two-part sliding (and lockable) glass lid, over which is a second metal lid. Living in the tank are four green anole lizards, three geckos and around half a dozen millipedes ranging in size from about 3 cm to around 25 cm. The theory is that, with the glass (which millipedes aren’t supposed to be able to climb) and double lid, none of them can get out. For which, I must admit, I’m moderately grateful.

A couple of weeks back, Luc found one of the smaller millipedes between the two lids. A check of the tank showed that there was a very small gap in one corner of the glass lid where the heater cable goes through, so he sealed that up with silicone.

**********************************************************

Last night, before I went to bed, one of the two cats came in (well, she had been outside a full five minutes), but the other one was enjoying himself in the cold too much, so I asked Luc to call him in before he came up.

So, in due course, Luc opened our front door, went down to the main porch and coaxed Dyson in. They both came back upstairs to our front door, which Luc pushed open …. to find a millipede about ten cm from the door. It hadn’t been there when he went out three minutes earlier.

We can’t work out if the millipede escaped before Luc sealed the gap and has been slowly making its way to the front door for two weeks, or whether it escaped despite the gap being sealed. In either case, it perked up once it was given some water, and was happily chomping half a tomato when I came downstairs this morning.

It’s going to stay in its own small lidded box (with earth, water, heat and food) until it’s too big to get through any small gaps that might still exist.

Which is why it’s been named after ‘The Cooler King’.

Dialogue from ‘The Great Escape’:

Von Luger: Are all American officers so ill-mannered?
Hilts: Yeah, about 99 percent.
Von Luger: Then perhaps while you are with us you will have a chance to learn some. Ten days isolation, Hilts.
Hilts: CAPTAIN Hilts.
Von Luger: Twenty days.
Hilts: Right. Oh, uh, you'll still be here when I get out?
Von Luger: [visibly annoyed] Cooler!

Snowball - a Very Expensive Cat

I’ve said before that Snowball, our female cat, shows far more intelligence than she should, but lately we’ve noticed that she has a particularly unusual talent.

Snowball is naturally inquisitive, and if you have anything in your hand she’ll want to know

a) what it is;
b) is it edible; and
c) is it for her?

So when either of us is holding a couple of banknotes, it isn’t surprising that Snowball comes over to smell them, and shows no further interest.

Then we sold a motorcycle.

Luc took an envelope from his jacket pocket, and Snowball came over to see what it was. She took a sniff …. then started rubbing her scent all over them and purring wildly, as though it was catnip.

Some of the money was kept at home and, a few days later, Luc went to put a small number of the same notes into his pocket. Snowball came over to inspect …. and ignored them.

Over the next few weeks, she checked out several selections of notes – some of which were brand new from the bank so should have been clean – and we started to notice a pattern to her behaviour; she didn’t react to small amounts, but was definitely interested in larger amounts. But I’m not talking about the number of notes – I’m talking about the value.

Basically, Snowball won’t get out of bed for less than £100.

I’m not joking; show her eight £10 notes and she’ll walk away, but show her five £20 notes and she’ll politely tap them with her front paw to be put down on the floor as hers, and show her ten £20 notes (or twenty £10 notes) and she’ll rub her scent all over them!

As I’ve said, we’ve tested her on both old and new notes, so it isn’t a matter of our scent on the paper (or traces of drugs, if the media are to be believed). We’ve tried her on different combinations. She can’t possibly distinguish the value of notes or understand their worth, but she obviously does.

And if you haven’t got enough money, she’s not interested.

A "mildly intense" evening

Last night I ran a chocolate tasting at I club I'm involved with. It wasn't an 'expert-led' event ("I'm getting blackberres with a hint of chocolate"), but rather 13 anonymous (or as anonymous as I could make them) different chocolates were presented to everyone - one chocolate at a time - for them to tast and record their thoughts. Then, once all 20 of us had tasted them all, I let people know what they were, where from and - perhaps most importantly - how much they cost.

I included milk, dark, white and flavoured in the selection, from four different manufacturers. The prices ranged from £2.32 per 100g down to £0.50 per 100g. And the results were - well - actually what I expected.

The four chocolates of the most expensive brand proved the least popular - even before people knew how much they cost - with one of them being scored at 0/10 by at least one person. These were all flavoured and, generally, the group's opinion was that, while the flavours might be good, the chocolate was too strong (even the mint!). Several people commented that it left their mouth dry after they had eaten the single small square they were given.

As you would expect, some people found the dark chocolates unpleasant - the 70% had few fans - but others loved them. We also had one person who refused even to try either of the two white chocolates offered. One person identified one of the cheapest as "a good Swiss chocolate" (her words, and not actually Swiss), but didn't rate the "finest Alpine chocloate" (maker's description) a few items later.

Also interesting was that one person described the last but one as "quite nice really" when it was the one she raved about just last week - when she knew what it was.

However, the highlight of the evening - for me at least - was caused by a rather bitter flavoured chocolate with an added ingredient. I don't think anyone actually liked this chocolate, and people couldn't place what the extra flavour was; most said whisky, one said cherry, and one good friend said "get rid of the chocolate and just give me a bottle of what's in it". Well, I just might - I've got an unopened bottle of balsamic vinegar in the kitchen ..... Yes, this is one the makers commented "Our chocolatiers knew just how well balsamic vinegar would complement this mildly intense, exotic dark chocolate ..." And our club members knew just how little it did.

And what on earth is "mildly intense" chocolate anyway?

One man's meat ....

We had a meeting in work today, and ordered lunch for four. It came - meat, fish and vegetarian sandwiches and wraps .... on the same platter, with the vegetarian ones between the meat and the fish.

Possibly not the best idea.

The four horsemen (revised): Water, wind, IT ... and me

When I was younger, it seemed that accidents and "technical problems" happened around me; I didn't cause them, you understand, I just seemed to attract them.

Some of them were quite small, like stopping the watches of people sitting next to me (I still don't wear a watch myself because they just don't last), while others were a bit bigger (killing computers and the like), and some were ... well .... pretty spectacular. The landslide while I was in Hong Kong comes to mind. And the two "near misses" over Italy. And the nuclear explosion at Chernobyl, which actually happened a few days before I flew to the Soviet Union, but hit the headlines pretty much while I was on my way to the airport.....

Then there's the matter of the schools I went to, and the first few offices I worked in. My three schools were, in order, demolished, closed and merged (leaving the premises) within a few years of me leaving. And the first seven places I worked were either closed or demolished shortly after my departure, with the exception of the Tonbridge office; I was there for six months and it was totally gutted and refurbished. Then I returned there a few years later for another six months, and it was completely gutted again.

As I've got older, these occurrences seem to have died down. However, this week has had me wondering whether I still have the touch.

This week at work was always going to be a particularly busy one; we had a deadline of Friday for a substantial piece of work which, in turn, was just one essential step to a major date three weeks away.

Arriving at work on Monday I could feel something was wrong. It was the squelching carpets that gave it away. And the lack of electricity to my side of the building. Yes, we were flooded. In all, six desks on my floor were completely out of action; my Director's, two desks in front of me, two behind me, and mine in the middle.

Tuesday and Wednesday were reasonably normal although we're still, even now, down one computer and 'phone extention.

By Thursday we were actually starting to see the light at the end of this particular tunnel. That's when the building managers ran the annual practice of an emergency evacuation.

But, once we were back in the building, I got back on track and, by the time I went home, I was confident I would deliver on time.

It was while I was on the last leg of my commute - the bus from the station - that I started to become aware that the traffic flow was wrong. It's always pretty heavy at that time of night, in both directions, but keeps moving. But now it was stop/start in my direction, and unusually light the other way. Almost as if ....

Which was when the bus driver wound his window down to speak to an oncoming motorist and announced to everyone on the bus that a tree had fallen down, blocking the entire road ahead.



He was right.







Now, imagine you're in charge of a transport system, which a substantial number of bus routes using the same major road, and that road is suddenly blocked. Do you:

a) Redirect the buses by other routes, missing out a few stops on the way;
b) Turn all the buses round at the obstruction, and ask the passengers to transfer on to those on the other side (bearing in mind the pavements aren't blocked) to continue their journeys; or
c) Stop all the buses at the obstruction and leave them there, causing more chaos.

So I walked the last two miles home. In the rain.

(I'm assuming you guessed correctly. The answer was c)

Anyway, by lunchtime on Friday we were delivered, or close enough, and there was nothing more I could do. I spent the afternoon tidying up electronically, and doing all those little things that get pushed aside. Until just before 4.00 .....

I have reason to believe that, although we were told that work on our IT system wouldn't start until 6.00, it started before that. London is a satellite office for us - the main centre is in the Midlands - and we in London access our main systems remotely. A little before 4.00, the first person in London got thown out of the system and couldn't get back in ("Log in and password invalid"). This was reported to the main office, and they couldn't work out what the problem was. About ten minutes later, the same thing happened to someone else in London. Then another. Then another. Then ... well, you get the picture. I'm no expert, but that sounds as though IT were playing with the firewall.

Anyway, I decided to call it a day ... and a week .... and left.

Oh, come on! Haven't you guessed who was the first person thrown out of the system?

You know who you are!

Note to .... someone.

A gentleman does not look at the security pass being worn by a female colleague and say "You've not worn well at all, have you?"

In passing (the Paralympics)

I was watching the highlights of the Paralympics last night - and I have to say how impressed and moved I have been by the whole competition - when a caption came up under a picture of a Swiss athlete.

It appears that, entering the Paralympics, the World Record Holder for the 10,000 metre wheelchair event was Hans Frei.

Now there's a name ....

.... and it was all going so well (2)

.... being the second part of "travelling with cats" for this year.

So where was I? Right, the cats were both fully wormed and ticked off.

Late the following morning we packed all the luggage into the car, put Dyson into his box, picked up the end of the main bed, got Snowball out from underneath it, put her in her box, put both cat boxes in the car and headed for home.

We arrived at the ferry terminal with just over an hour and a quarter to spare. Our passports were checked and returned, no problem. We were asked to scan the cats ourselves (to read the microchips and confirm they were really the right cats), which caused some amusement. Snowball did not take to kindly to a largish piece of electronic wizardry appearing in her box, and did her best to avoid it. Then tried to put her head through the loop. But, yes, the cat we had with us really was Snowball and not an imposter.

Dyson, of course, tried to eat the scanner.

So far, so good. Then they starting looking at the passports in detail.

Please bear in mind that both cats have travelled on these passports before. We knew we had followed all the regulations, and there should be no issues with either cat.

"Should" being the operative word.

A bit of history here. The European Pet Travel Scheme first came into being in (if I recall correctly) late 2003, but the booklet-style passports weren't issued until 2005. In the intervening period, animals travelled on a series of papers, the most important one being Form PET5. Snowball had her first rabies vaccination in January 2004, and her serological test a month later, after which she was issued her PET5, and travelled to France that summer. Early in 2005 she was issued a booklet-style passport, which includes the date of her satisfactory serological test. Since then, she has had annual rabies shots to keep her up to date all of which are recorded, with dates, in her passport.

So when the French official examined her passport, he noticed that the date of her serological test was before the first rabies vaccination shown. This did not compute.

Eventually, he gave us all the passports back, and told us to go to line A in embarkation which would "be closer to the office". We weren't actually told we had to go to the office.

Neither did we realise, until embarkation started, that we hadn't been given a boarding card.

We explained this to an official, who said only "Office!" So I picked up our booking and all passports, and headed to the port office.

There was only one member of staff on duty, who was not only sorting out problems with boarding passes, but also selling tickets and changing bookings. So quite busy then. I explained we hadn't been given a boarding pass, and she asked to see our booking; that was in order. Then she asked to see our passports; they were in order. Then she asked to see the cats' passports; they were in order.

So she 'phoned the check-in staff and asked why they had sent someone with two cats to her (note that she hadn't been given notice), and the person who had first identified the discrepancy on Snowball's passport explained his concern. She checked through Snowball's passport again; the serology was there, the rabies was there, what was the problem? Oh yes, the serology was dated before the rabies....

She took photocopies of Snowball's passport and faxed them off to DEFRA in the UK. Then she sold/exchanged/amended some more tickets. And all this time, our ferry was boarding.

After a while, she came over and explained that she was waiting for DEFRA to 'phone her back to confirm whether the passport was in order. I explained the history, showed her Snowball's pre-passport medical card detailing her first rabies vaccination but, no, she had to have DEFRA's response.

It was now approaching 5.30 pm on a Sunday afternoon. Possibly not the best time to try to get an answer from a government official (I know; I used to be one). And our ferry was closing boarding at 5.40 pm.

She called DEFRA. They promised to call back within ten minutes. So she got involved in selling tickets to an elderly couple, and exchanging a ticket for an Eastern European man who had got through check-in using "my brother's ticket, but he can no longer travel, so I want it in my name please". This last one didn't seem to worry her at all, although I would have thought it was a bit more suspicious than Snowball's passport. And now she was telling people that the 6.00 ferry was full; they would have to wait for the 8.00 sailing.

5.40 passed without a call. To make matters worse, I'd left my mobile in the car, so couldn't let Luc know what was happening, and didn't dare leave the office.

My mind was racing through the possible outcomes. A two hour delay would get us home at 11.00 pm, and I was going back to work the next day - but my main concern was that the two cats would have been in their boxes for 12 hours. What if DEFRA didn't get back in time for the 8.00 pm sailing? There were no further sailings that day, so we would be delayed until the morning. Snowball's insurance covers some costs arising from lost travel papers, but would it cover this, when the papers weren't actually lost?

The 'phone rang. DEFRA informed madame that Snowball's papers were in order for her return to the UK. Our boarding pass was printed and handed to me, along with both cats' papers.

I ran across the tarmac holding the white boarding pass above my head. Luc opened the car door for me, and started the engine. An official came from nowhere, took the pass, and waved us on to the ferry. A few seconds later, boarding ended. The ferry had started moving away from the dock before we'd gone up two flight of stairs from the car deck.

But just think ..... Snowball's passport still has that discrepancy. We could go through this again on every trip from now on.

.... and it was all going so well (1)

.... being the first part of "travelling with cats" for this year.

We're now quite experienced at travelling abroad with our cats, so didn't anticipate any particular problems. Taking them to see an unknown French vet for their pre-return ticks and worms treatments is always a bit of an unknown, but that's all.

Ah, yes, the pre-return visit to the vet .....

I have to say, the vet we found in Villenauxe la Grande was lovely. We took both cats in together, I showed him their passports and explained what was required, and we decided to start with Snowball.

I should explain at this point that the worming treatment used to be an injection, which the cats didn't like much but, once done, was over with. Last year we were offered the choice of injection or tablet and - having some idea of the difficulties that giving a cat a tablet can produce - opted for the injection.

This year, we weren't given the choice.

So the vet started with pretty, innocent-looking, clever little Snowball. The tablet went into her mouth, her mouth was gently held shut, and he massaged her throat. She refused to swallow. After about 30 seconds, he decided to flush it down with a pipette of water. This did not have the effect he had hoped; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect.

Snowball is missing some teeth on the lower left side of her mouth (we understand she was repeatedly kicked by her first owners). The influx of water when she had already had the tablet in her mouth for approaching a minute meant that the pink sugar coating on the tablet dissolved completely, and came from the sides of her mouth as bright pink foam.

She looked as though she had a designer version of rabies.

And, to add to the insult, the addition of water allowed her to push the tablet out through the gap in her teeth.

The vet split the tablet in half, and tried again, with more water. No luck.

At this point, he disappeared and came back with a tube of nutrient jelly. Half the tablet went into a small amount of the jelly, which was then pushed gently into her mouth (and I have to say that the vet was always gentle, and never once lost patience). She tried to resist, adding a smear of gold-coloured jelly round the front of her mouth, but couldn't. She could, however, spit the tablet out.

She now looked as though she was a blinged-up cat with designer rabies.

She had also gained a new nickname, Petit Malin. Yes, I know technically that should be Petite Maline, but just at that point her gender wasn't a major concern.

More jelly, more water and, eventually, both parts of the tablet were downed. And our precious Snowball was not happy at having lost the battle of wills.

Dyson, of course, had been watching all this.

Despite his size, Dyson is usually a most laid-back cat. In fact, I don't think I've ever before heard the growl that came from him when the vet came close with a tablet. It was really quite impressive.

The vet glanced at me and asked "Il est gourmand?" Yes, he is a little greedy.

The tablet was split into three, and the first part was added to some nutrient jelly on the vet's finger. Very cautiously, the vet brought his hand close to Dyson's mouth .... and Dyson licked, swallowed and came back for more. The second part of the tablet went the same way, and Dyson was still keen for more. And the final part of the tablet. Then some more jelly without any tablet, for good measure.

Thankfully, the tick treatment was the usual back-of-the-neck liquid which, although neither cat liked it, did not leave much opportunity for resistence.

Anyway, at least that was done, and we could bring the two cats back into the UK without any difficulty.

Or so we thought .....

Thoughts on food in France (Cats' version)

We brought Dyson’s low magnesium food to France with us, and mostly dry food for Snowball, but the weather was so hot in the first few days that we bought some sachets for her as we were concerned with the amount of fluid/moisture she was getting. She’s been eating the French food very happily, which is a relief – she can be very fussy (although less so since Dyson moved in).

So we decided to give Dyson one of the French sachets (we give him standard food perhaps once every five days as a change). Dyson will eat just about anything (last night this included the battery from his tracker tag, which he finally crunched open but, luckily, he spat it out), and the menu we selected was chicken and peas.

There were a few minutes of enthusiastic eating, then Dyson took a few steps back, licked his lips, looked up expectantly for more (answer: No), then moved a bit further and started grooming vigorously.

It was some time later I actually looked at his bowl and, to my surprise, found it not quite empty. Yes, the chicken was all gone. So was the jelly. But four peas remained neatly licked clean and group together.

I left them. Later that night, we put a couple of treats in his bowl, which again disappeared quickly. I checked the bowl. Three peas left neatly at one side.

And one pea nosed very gently out of the bowl altogether, and on the floor next to it.

First impressions and a Festival

We arrived at our site in the middle of nowhere (ok, about an hour’s drive east of Paris) at around seven o’clock following nine hours’ travel. Both cats were sick less than five minutes before we arrived (so not a bad journey really).

The site is in a forest and we should have large pools of water just behind us but they are dry – possibly a benefit in the hot, late summer weather. A quick look round the chalet indicated it would be very comfortable – there are even bikes padlocked to the decking for our use, and they seem to be in decent condition.

It was only when we started to make up the beds that we found our first problem.

Luc always has difficulties with the beds on holiday. At 6’3”, he needs to sleep diagonally across the smaller than normal beds you get in rented mobile homes, and even then his feet hang over the edge. But that wasn’t the problem here.

No, the problem was that we’d brought double sheets with us …. and they didn’t fit the king-size bed!

Oh, well, it could be worse.

The first day was a rest day (apart from some food shopping), to allow Luc some time to recover from the last couple of days, and to give the two cats a chance to explore while we weren’t too far away. Dyson did a quick once round the immediate area then settled on the decking, purring loudly. Snowball – shining a dazzling white in the sun – decided to go further afield, find out where there were dogs and wind them up as campsite rules say they have to be kept on a leash and she doesn’t. And I swear she knows that.

I knew that Provins, our nearest town of any size, was well worth a visit. The medieval town is still pretty much complete within its walls, with the majority of nineteenth and twentieth century building limited to the newer “low town”. But it wasn’t until the evening of our rest day that I picked up a few tourist flyers and found that there was a harvest festival in the old town the next day.

When I say harvest festival, I don’t mean three hymns and a few tins of carrots. Immediately on entry through the city walls we came across a baker making bread and cooking it in wood-fuelled ovens – and his produce included douillons - whole apples wrapped in bread dough and baked. A quick look round the church where Joan of Arc came for mass after leaving Reims in 1492, and then a stroll to the first square which was full of classic cars and scooters; not just wooden framed, but, in some cases, wooden built with a metal covering only for the engine. And everywhere there were people of all ages dressed in traditional costume.

We strolled on (it was a pleasant 28 degrees, five degrees less than the previous day), past stalls selling handmade leather goods, local sausages, cheeses and honey, and decorations made of twisted and plaited straw. Another small square held an exhibition of bicycles through the ages, including a wooden framed, wooden wheeled and pedal-less “push bike” – surely not very comfortable!

More stalls (and not over-priced) lined the street to the next major square, where a local band was playing. Here there were funfair type stalls, including a shooting gallery. But this one was different. Vertical alcoves, perhaps half a metre wide, held three under-inflated balloons each. These were stopped from escaping by two or three vertical strings at the front of each alcove, and kept moving by a fan at the bottom of the alcove. So all you had to do was shoot the moving balloons ….

Now Luc is a good shot and he needed a confidence-boost …. But then, how far off target were the rifles? We paid for 15 pellets.

His first shot took out a balloon. He readily pointed out it was six inches lower than the one he was actually aiming at, but it gave him an idea of how the rifle was shooting. His second shot managed to burst two balloons. This got the attention of the young boy (too young to shoot) standing next to him. Luc was given a token, and three more balloons were put into the alcove.

I didn’t know you could hit three balloons with one pellet, but you can! Another token, and three more balloons ….

After fifteen shots, Luc had hit fifteen balloons and the boy standing next to him had a new hero. A quick look at the prizes, and Luc worked out he needed two more tokens – six balloons – for the prize he wanted. We bought the minimum seven shots.

A few minutes later we walked away with his prize and an additional small blue hippo; after all, Luc had demonstrated quite clearly that it was possible to win, and trade on the shooting gallery was going well by the time we left.

Our timing couldn’t have been better. As we reached the corner of the square, the parade came past; first of all, vintage tractors decorated with corn and bright, paper flowers, then the classic bicycles, including the totally wooden one which must have been really uncomfortable on the cobbles, and all ridden by people in costume, including the postman with a handlebar moustache and the priest in his cassock. Then some ponies, followed by three or four small bands and troupes of folk dancers, each headed by a banner indicating which village or town they were from. And at the end, perhaps two minutes after the rest of the procession, two “drunks” playing a hurdy-gurdy (with genuine punched paper music cards) and singing slightly rude songs as they wove a not-very-straight path up the street.

We bought some rose ice-cream and moved on. Now the stalls were selling honey and beeswax candles, meats, cheeses, fresh milk (the goats were penned next to the stall) and beer. Several of the bandsmen were enjoying the beer, so we took that as a recommendation and tried the white and amber.

At the end of the town on the grass rise just inside the wall, were stalls selling wooden produce. The first man was making clogs from scratch, while others had inlaid boxes, toys and jigsaws, clocks, small carvings and the like. Then we realised a second parade was coming, this time floats, again decorated with corn and paper flowers, each showing local crafts or institutions (including, as far as I could tell, the local school). This even included a couple of men on the timber frame of a roof sawing off the extra wood from the rafters (yes, on a moving float). Health and Safety would never have allowed it at home. Still, even in non-PC France the woman clearing the route scolded the carpenter who threatened to throw his hammer into the crowd!

Ready, Steady, .... errr Stop? Go?

Well, the car had two new tyres and new brake discs, the packing was well underway, the cats had their holiday collars on (with tags engraved "Je porte une micropuce") and we were just about ready to go on holiday. Then yesterday afternoon Luc went out for a haircut .... and 'phoned me to say he'd had an accident.

It seems he was waiting to turn right out of a side road, the road from the left was clear and the car coming from the right was indicating to turn into the road he was coming out of, so he had enough of a gap to turn out. Except that the oncoming driver went straight on, into the side of the car. First of all she said she wasn't indicating, then the witness in the car behind said she was, then when the police turned on the engine of her car to move it the indicator was still going .... but that will, no doubt, be a story for another day. The insurers will see the blame as at least part Luc's as he turned out into the path of oncoming traffic, but he was led to believe that it wasn't oncoming as far as him (or he wouldn't have moved out) .....

Anyway, our car may or may not be a write-off, but it certainly is not taking us to France today.

Luckily, although we didn't think so at the time, we failed to sell our previous car last week. So once we had spoken to the insurance company, the latter part of yesterday was spent changing the car details on the ferry booking, changing the car details on the breakdown insurance, and re-organising the packing for a much smaller boot space, as well as refitting things such as hands free kits we had removed from the car we are now taking on holiday before putting it up for sale.
All in all, not the relaxed evening and early night we had planned.

Thank God for the French!

A few days ago, I finally got round to booking our summer holiday. Yes, I know I left it late, but I seem to have encountered some 'issues' over the last couple of years. Anyway, once we had sorted out the dates, and were pretty sure that Luc would have a replacement passport in time, I started the serious holiday hunting.

We are, as always, taking the two cats with us. This means we're limited to driveable distances, realistically no more than a day and a half in each direction. Except this year, because of the problems with dates, we're down to ten days - so make that no more than one day's drive in each direction.

Which puts us into northern or north/central France, and the Loire Valley or eastern Brittany at a push.

I mentioned we're taking the cats? Not if any British holiday companies have a say, we're not!

I started trawling through the big camping/mobile home companies. Some said quite simply 'No animals', but others declared 'Pets welcome!' - except when you read further/email/telephone them that means dogs. It's like labelling somewhere 'The perfect family holiday' then adding in the small print males under the age of 16 not permitted.

Apparently the reason for this is 'some people are allergic to cats and could have their holiday ruined if they stay in a unit where a cat has been the week before'. I've never had the nerve to point out that, even without being allergic, I can have my holiday ruined by other people's children. Memories of a father shouting to his tearaway children "Oi, stop playing with the football by our car, you might damage it; go over there" and poiting to where our car was parked come to mind. Not that they took the least bit of notice of him.

Even the Loire Valley site we have stayed at for the last two years is now off our list. Formerly privately-owned, small and friendly, they were bought by one of the big companies last year and are now full of 'attractions' that we wouldn't want - and no longer allow animals in their rental accommodation (although you're still likely to walk into animals on site, because mobile home owners are allowed to bring them).

Which left us with quite a problem.

We discussed not taking the cats - for no more than five minutes. We looked at gites and private rentals, but there was often the risk of fast roads within metres - on campsites people rarely drive at high spead and are looking out for children, so the cats are safer.

Then I looked at the website of Yelloh! - a French company. Guess what? 'Animals welcome' means just that. They clearly understand that a pet IS part of the family, and don't see why you wouldn't want to share you holiday with them. The French don't do PC, for which I am very grateful.

So we're going to just about the most eastern point of Ile de France, almost into Champagne. The accommodation is booked, the ferries are booked, insurance is sorted and eveyone (including Luc) has a passport.

Vive la France! Liberté, egalité, chaternité!

Coleman lives!

I haven't really had the opportunity to watch much of the Olympics, but last night I switched on the television in time to watch (or rather listen to, as I was eating) coverage of the men's gymnastics.

By all accounts there were some pretty spectacular performances. And I'm not just talking about the gymnasts.

Within a few seconds I heard the BBC commentator say "And that's brought him up to Gold, and into the medals!" Now, I don't claim to be an expert, but I think it would be hard to take Gold and not get a medal.

Then, a few minutes later, a British gymnast approached the pommel horse. Obviously the BBC commentator had to say something positive. "He's currently lying ninth, only just outside the top eight". Well, yes ... it's quite a long time since I learned to count but I'm pretty sure nine does come quite soon after eight, even in China.

Keep up the good work, everyone!

... but some are more equal than others

Back in May I wrote about ticket prices for a train trip up to Spalding and how, eventually, I ended up buying a First Class ticket because it was cheaper than standard class. Well, three days ago I finally got to make that trip.

Having been at Kings Cross a week before, I'd noticed that there was a first class lounge on the station. Now, I'm not the type to leave arriving at the station until the last minute, so I had about 25 minutes spare before boarding my train and, as the holder of a first class ticket, I made my way to the first class lounge.

I was refused admittance.

It appears that, if you buy a First Advance ticket, you haven't paid enough (or whatever other reason National Express trains might like to give) to receive first class treatment.

I'm assuming that National Express have a portrait of George Orwell in the first class lounge, but I wouldn't know.

So I waited on the overcrowded, under-seated concourse until my train was ready for boarding.

On arrival at my seat, I found a menu which announced on its inside front cover that complimentary drinks and nibbles would be served in first class, but then listed over several pages the paid refreshments also available. Well, I was served my complimentary coffee (one cup), but there was no sign of any "nibbles" before I left the train at Peterborough. Now, I know it's only a 46 minute journey, but then there were only two first class carriages on board, and the staff did have time to go round

1) to ask if anyone wanted to eat in the restaurant car;
2) to ask if anyone wanted hot sandwiches from the buffet;
3) with the cart for payable refreshments; and
4) with the tea/coffee (which, in fact, was two trips - one for each)

so I think they could have found time to hand out some biscuits if they had wanted.

I'm thinking that, next time, I might pay the extra and go standard class. You get a better class of people there.

The end of the season

Yesterday was not a good day.

Actually, most of it was very good, but a couple of events overshadowed it.

We attend and exhibit at a number of car/bike shows each summer, and yesterday was the last of them for this year. In fact, I was planning to write a comparison of them. Perhaps I will in a few days.

Yesterday's was a real family event. It was a proper village fair with stalls run by the local school, Guides, WI, animal rescue centre, etc., with a classic car show attached. In fact, for once we weren't in the car show; as the local branch of the Motorcycle Action Group we are part of the local community and were invited to run a stand, which we did to raise funds for the local Children's Hospice.

So around half a dozen of us arrived early to put the table and gazebo up, and arrange everything. One of the group members, Pat, sent his apologies for being absent as he was helping his wife set up the Library stand - which was accepted as a worthy excuse.

Once the show started, Pat came over and said he was just going home and would be back in ten minutes with his custom bike, which is a beatuiful machine with some spectacular artwork. Sure enough, about a quarter of an hour later we heard his engine in the small lane that leads into the park.

Then there was a shout of "Get the ambulance team!"

We still don't know exactly what happened, but it sounds as though he applied his front brake before a speed bump, his front wheel dug into the gravel and his back wheel kept going. By all accounts he landed with his ribcage on the kerbstone, and a second or so later the bike landed on him. The ambulance crew (who were at the show allowing children to see what goes on inside an ambulance) refused to let Pat go to the beer tent, but took him to hospital. On first inspection, he had dislocated his elbow (which is pretty serious for a biker) and got some gravel rash (not wearing his jacket for such a short journey - an all too common mistake), but we haven't heard about the ribs or anything else yet. The bike was rather messed up too.

One of the lads went to hospital with him (missing his dog winning "Best trick", coming fourth in "Waggiest tail", and winning "Best in show"). The rest of us continued with the stand. We'd set ourselves a minimum target of raising £40, and by the end of the day had £105. So we were feeling pretty good, apart from Pat's accident.

We got home around 6.45, and I was very aware that our two cats had both chosen to stay in when we left that morning, and would now be wanting a) to be fed, and b) to go out. In fact, I could see one of them in the window looking for us.

Our next door neighbour also has two cats, Tiger and Tiny. I've lived there for almost 16 years, and they've been around about six months less, arriving as kittens from the same litter. They, like our two, are well-known and loved by most people on the estate, and as I arrived home last night it wasn't a surpise for me to see Tiny lying in a safe spot between the pillars of the car park, catching the late afternoon sun. I called out "Hello Tiny".

He didn't move. Not a flick of the tail, nor a twitch of an ear. And his eyes were open, not blinking in the sunlight. I suppose it must have been a peaceful death, lazing in the sun with the sounds of summer around him.

His owners were out. We left him as he was so that they could see how peaceful he was when they got home, but covered him with a blanket. Then, while I was feeding and sorting out our two, Luc went to check Tiger, who was sitting by his front door. Tiger, who will normally do anything for a bit of fussing, didn't want to know.

RIP Tiny. You will be missed.

Serendipity, or one cat's food is another cat's poison

Sometimes, things just fall right. It needn't be anything major, but just one of those happy coincidences that make life so much easier.

We have two cats, both of which are rescued. Both are around ten years old. And that's where the similarity ends.

Snowball is female, pure white, petite, neat and very clever. She has lived with us for five years now, and for most of that was an only cat. It is, most definitely, her house and our purpose is to serve her every whim then leave her alone to rest. She has a rather delicate stomach (probably as a result of being kicked frequently by her first owner), but we've found foods she likes and all's well.

Snowball's food rules:

1) If it's chicken, I'll eat it (but see 3 and 4);

2) If it's turkey, I won't eat it, so don't even try;

3) If it's in gravy, forget it, even if it's chicken;

4) Pâté is not a foodstuff, even if it's chicken; and

5) Anything else - dry, in jelly or intended for human consumption - I will consider.

Our rule for feeding Snowball is that she gets wet food once or twice a week, and dry food the rest of the time.

The other cat is Dyson. He's male, almost pure black, large (as in the vet says he shouldn't lose any more weight now he's down to 7kg), easy-going, and has the brain of a sausage. He is constantly surprised by life, and purrs louder than you could imagine (hence his name). He's been part of the family for two years now, and from the first accepted Snowball's supremacy without a battle. His sum needs seem to be food, human company and room to lie on his back with his paws in the air (which is a ridiculous position for a cat his size). We don't know much about his past other than he was found as a stray at Christmas/New Year, then spent over three months in an outside cabin at the sanctuary, where he was always second choice.

Dyson's food rules:

1) If it's food I'll eat it (if I get the chance). This includes marmite.

However, our rule for feeding Dyson is a bit more specialised. Just over a year ago, he developed Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease (FLUTD), which we only noticed when he started bleeding. He had a night in hospital, a course of antibiotics, a couple of urine tests and a few weeks of special food.

I had a large bill. Thankfully, I also had insurance.

The special food was in jelly, and Snowball wasn't too impressed that he had that while she was on her usual dry food. However, after a few weeks he went back onto his normal diet and all was well. At least, all was well for about three months. Then he had another bout of FLUTD, more antibiotics, more tests and more special food. And I had another claim on the insurance. So I decided he had better stay on his special food for good. It may be more expensive than normal food, but it's worth it if it keeps him healthy; and, anyway, I found an internet supplier that was a whole lot cheaper than the vet.

Snowball really didn't like Dyson being on meat in jelly permanently, and she's a cat who can make her displeasure very clear. Not that she actually misbehaves or anything like that, but she can give the most disapproving glare, and remove herself from your company until she gets the reverence she thinks she deserves*.

Yes, I felt sorry for her (looking back, I think that's when the "or twice" a week with wet food started), but I also started to be concerned about Dyson. He could easily have another ten years to live, and being on the same make of food - with a choice of only two flavours - could get monotonous, so I had a look on the internet for other foods suitable for his condition. I found another supplier with second brand, and decided to give it a try; if he was ok with it, we could vary between the two makes.

I'm pleased to report that the trial of the new brand went well. Dyson was, of course, more than happy to eat it, and there's been no recurrence of his illness.

But the best thing about it? It's a pâté.

Twice a day I put Snowball's food down, then Dyson's. The second his bowl touches the floor Snowball comes over to see what he's got, looks at his bowl, looks at him, looks at me as of to say "You'd never get me to eat that! I'm going back to my biscuits" and returns to her own bowl, purring gently to herself, clearly content that she's got the better part of the deal.

The purring is new behaviour. She's also choosing to spend less time on her own. She's even being nice to Dyson some of the time (well, she only rarely hits him these days, and doesn't bother to move if he sits close to her on the bed).

And it's all down to the fact that his low-magnesium food is a pâté.

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* Post script. Page 2 of the EU Pet Passport records the animal's name with the footnote "as stated by the owner". Obviously as opposed to "as stated by the animal", which would be something a great deal more impressive than Snowball.

The complex science of simplification

In July this year, my aunt and uncle will be celebrating their diamond wedding - 60 years of marriage. The main celebration is a lunch on a Friday in the wilds of Lincolnshire; I've arranged to stay overnight the night before to avoid the risks of travelling on the day, so I'll be going up by train after work on the Thursday - quite convenient as my office is about 10 minutes' walk from Kings Cross.

So a couple of weeks ago I looked up the journey, then started speaking to the rest of the family about whether it would be best to be picked up from Peterborough, or take the slow connection through to Spalding and be met there. The single journey (I've got a lift home) train fare I was quoted to Spalding was £15.

Having decided that Spalding was the better option, I went to book my ticket this week.

On Monday, rail fares were "simplified".

The cheapest single standard-class fare to Spalding available to me - two months before the date of travel - is now £28. That's just about an 87% increase. What's more, when I went to book it there was a charge of £1 to have it posted to me which I've never had before, so I decided I'd book it and collect it from the station - but even that costs 50 pence. So I decided NOT to book it, but go and get it from the station, free.

Then something strange caught my eye. Yes, the cheapest standard fare is £28, so how much do you reckon the cheapest 1st class fare would be? I bet you wouldn't have said £27! Yes, the first class fare is £1 less than the standard fare.

How's that for simplification?

So then I though I'd take a look at the actual rail company's website (National Express East Anglia) rather than The Trainline, to see if they would deliver free. No, same charges.

Then I did a search on "discount" and "National Express East Anglia".

It took me to another page of the National Express rail website where I found I could get an online discount of almost £3.

Isn't simplification of fares fun?

So I booked it. Guess how much they charged for delivery by first class post?

Nothing.

Good grief, this simplification is complicated.

So, all in all, it's still costing me £9 more than it would have if I'd booked it on Sunday, but I'm travelling first class. I call that a sort of result.

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On a different note, well done Boris for ruling that motorcycles can use bus lanes in London. In a city as congested as London, it's time that the Mayor realised that motorcycles take up less room, have less emissions, and never have less than 50% occupancy (with the minor exception of sidecars), and should therefore be encouraged rather than subjected to a personal vendetta.

Your humble servant ...

Last Saturday night/Sunday morning was the Moonwalk when large numbers of women - and smaller numbers of men - walk 26 miles around London wearing highly decorated bras (yes, the men too) to raise money for breast cancer research.

Now, I know I couldn't do that. But I wanted to do something, which is why, at 5.00 am on Sunday, I could be found outside the Breakthrough labs in Chelsea in my flourescant yellow t-shirt and cap handing out water bottles and encouragement to the walkers.

Ladies and gentlemen, I still think you are amazing. Thanks for allowing me the privilege of helping.

A sense of not belonging

A few weeks ago, before starting my new job, I was sent the usual forms to complete including the now standard ethicity questionnaire. I glanced down the form, pen in hand, ready to tick the "White British" box - only to find there wasn't one.

Yes, the heading "White British" was there, but it was subdivided into four; English, Scottish, Welsh and Other. This made me stop and think, even more so when I noticed the instruction at the top of the section to "Tick the box which most describes your cultural heritage".

I was born in England and, apart from a few months in France when I was 20, have lived in England all my life, but I've always regarded myself as British rather than English. You see, my mother is Welsh, and I spent many holidays in Wales while I was growing up. Her family was close-knit, and I was always aware of an extended family in Wales. And as my mother was at home, telling me stories and singing music from her heritage, the majority of my cultural heritage was Welsh. But I'm clearly not Welsh.

My father's job took him out of the country for about three to four months a year, mostly to Europe; it was as normal for him to be in Cologne, Vienna or Budapest as in London. He also brought European customs home, including introducing us children to wine and water with meals from an early age (I should add that none of us now drink more than once or twice a week, if that, and not to excess).

As for his family background - well, it was a mixture of East London Russian Jewish and Scottish methodist with Bristol overtones. In addition, the family was distinctly fragmented and not close; growing up, I knew of my uncle and his family a few miles away, my aunt and her family in Rhodesia, and my great aunt and her family in Nigeria. In short, I really didn't get any national or racial culture from my father.

So I've always described myself as British or, at a push, European. So, faced with a choice of describing myself as English, Welsh or Other, I ticked "Other" on the recent ethnicity form. I couldn't honestly describe myself as any other available option.

But this isn't the only time I've felt as though I don't fit lately. The London mayoral elections are later this week, and I've been trying to decide which of the candidates best represents my needs. And suddenly I started to realise that I don't think I'm a Londoner any more.

I was born in London (ok, it was Kent at the time, but London moved), and have lived there most of my life. I went to school in London. I've commuted into London for work for a fair number of years. But now I don't feel that I belong. The transport system - strongly disfavouring south of the river - doesn't help, but it's much more than that.

Walking around areas I used to know intimately, I scarcely recognise them; the wonderful, slightly faded frontages of ten or fifteen years ago have either degenerated further into run-down and vandalised zones, or been replaced with shining, modern buildings that could be anywhere. The little shops where I could happily browse for half an hour or so have been replaced either by brash impersonal chains, or by shops that smell enticingly exotic but where I'm constantly watched by the staff because I don't look the type to be buying individual spices. I worked in Victoria Street less than three years ago, but I don't recognise it now.

And passing restaurants, boutiques and the like, I realise these are no longer meant for the likes of me. I read restaurant reviews in the Metro, which finish with the words "A meal for two with water and wine costs £220" - how many real Londoners can afford that, or am I totally out of touch? In the 1980's I virtually lived at the Royal Opera House, where a seat at the side of the Stalls Circle would cost me £8.50 (or I could go into the Amphitheatre for £4.50 if no dancers I was particularly interested in were performing). I doubt that would buy me a sandwich now.

It's not that I'm against change; in fact, I would say I'm quite open to it - but at the moment, I'm really feeling sad. People need social groups to understand their own role but, while I'm happy in the circles I've actually joined (various interest groups and clubs), those I should belong to purely by reason of my existence seem to be disappearing fast. And where does that leave me?

A tribute to genius

I was planning to write something about the London mayoral elections this morning, but I've just heard the news that Humphrey Lyttelton has died.

I first started listening to I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue as a teenager. I'm not sure how I found it - possibly one of my older brothers learned about it from a schoolfriend and started listening, or possibly I put the radio on when I came home from my Saturday morning ballet class and there it was - but I was hooked. Here were people using words in a way that was rarely found elsewhere, and certainly not to that standard, with genuine wit and humour. Games made out of words, their individual meanings and how they played together, and even the result if words were left out. I'd been brought up on my father's bad puns and the cleverness of Michael Flanders' lyrics, but here was something more. I have never enjoyed situation comedies - other people's misfortunes, even if unreal, never seemed that funny to me - but here was verbal elegance at its best.

Yet over and above the teams was Humph, with his deadpan delivery of a line that you really wanted to believe he meant in innocence, and his mastery of silence - leaving a pause just a shade longer than you thought possible, but which turned out to be exactly right. An expert linguist, applying jazz principles to words.

A few years back, my partner and I introduced a young friend to ISIHAC. Now 27, she was brought up in an age of alternative comedy where offensiveness, shock and cruelty were meant to entertain, and at first she couldn't understand what she was hearing. Her most frequent comment was "How can he get away with saying that?" and, time and time again, I had to point out that what he had said was perfectly fine; it was what the listener heard that was outrageous.

I have so many memories of the show running through my head; the wonderful Samantha rummaging through the BBC's record library, late arrivals at so many balls, European tv schedules, re-recording of film scripts with a Clanger playing Sally in "When Harry met Sally" (yes, THAT scene), songs censored "so as not to offend public decency", Colin Sell at the piano, and so much more.

I think, perhaps, on Monday I will take ten minutes out to put a few flowers outside Mornington Crescent tube.

The meek shall inherit the earth (if the others don't mind)

I suppose everyone gets a bit carefree in the last few hours before leaving a job, but I just coudn't help myself.

Yesterday afternoon, some two hours before I finished work, I was putting a small collection of developmental books and CDs in the staff kitchen for my colleagues to borrow or browse as they see fit. Among them were some slim volumes on subjects such as "Saying No to Negativity", "Dealing with Anger at Work", "Humour in the Workplace" and "How to be Assertive".

It was this last one that attracted the attention of the other person in the kitchen at the time. She picked it up, flicked through it and said "This looks useful; I think I'll borrow it for the weekend if you don't mind".

I couldn't stop myself from saying "No, you can't".

"Oh sorry!" and she put it back on top of the other books.

I then explained that the correct answer when you're told you can't borrow a book on being assertive is "But I need it".

Bag for Life? No, bag for two weeks!

I did some shopping yesterday. And, as I often do, I forgot to take a bag with me, and had to use one of the thin plastic bags available at the checkout. But then again, I'm not feeling too guilty because that bag has already been reused to take the cat's litter out to the bin.

It was the couple in front of me at the checkout that worried me. As they came to the head of the queue, the woman produced one of the heavier "bags for life", waved it at the cashier and said something along the lines of "This one's battered. Could I have a new one please?" And, without a second's hesitation (or any charge), the lad on the till took it from her, dropped it on the floor beside him, and gave her a brand new heavy duty plastic bag.

The bag the woman handed over didn't look that bad to me; just a little scuffed. Surely that isn't how "bags for life" are supposed to work? I've been using the same one since before Christmas for my regular Friday outing.

The kindness of strangers, the bitterness of friends

It's Good Friday, which means tomorrow is Easter Saturday. And that means tomorrow is the day that our local motorbike club is meeting up with others to take Easter eggs and soft toys (provided by ourselves) to our neareast children's hospice. It should be a very heart-warming day, and one I'm looking forward to, despite the weather.

There's just one problem. We don't have a bike at the moment.

It's a bit of a long story, but in essence the old one's been sold and the new one isn't quite ready because the dealer's got one person on holiday and one off sick. We should get it next week, and it will be wonderful. But it will be too late for the Easter egg run.

MAG (Motorcycle Action Group) met this Wednesday, the day after we learnt we had no bike. We've only been going a short while and don't know many people, but mentioned our problem to the club chair when we arrived. So, having called the meeting to order, he asked who was going on the run; every hand went up. Then "Luc's new bike isn't ready, has anyone got a spare bike they could lend him?"

A voice from the corner "Yes, he can borrow my Wing". So someone we've met possibly half a dozen times is lending us a Goldwing - which, for those of you who don't know is a pretty expensive bike - so that we can join in on a special day for the Hospice.

There are some really good people out there.

Compare and contrast with the tale below, which breaks my rule about not writing about work/colleagues other than in general terms.

I've been in my current job about 20 months and generally enjoy it. I would appreciate more involvement in the mainstream work of the Unit (I do finance, recruitment and other admin-type jobs while the others do the worthy medical research bit), and I would certainly not say no to more money, but it's an interesting environment and the people are, on the whole, a pleasure to work with.

Then one of my colleagues passed me a vacancy notice for a job elsewhere that would give me both more involvement and more money. I applied, interviewed and - to my great surprise - was offered the job. The next day I told my line manager (who was aware I had an interview) I'd been offered the job, and she asked me what it would take to keep me. This took me aback, but I gave it some thought and came back with a few ideas. She asked me not to make a decision until she had spoken with the Director, and I agreed.

Some time later, one of my colleagues told me in private that someone had started a rumour that I hadn't been offered the job, but had lied about it to try to get more money from my current employer. She knew me well enough to know this couldn't be true, but she had heard it from someone who's been there less than a year and doesn't know me so well, and was asking her if it was possible.

I'd already decided I was going to accept the new job, and did so without delay. I spoke with my line manager, and explained the reasons for my decision. Then, separately, I told her about the rumour, and that I would not be able to stay in any circumstances as my position would be constantly undermined. She was - to put it mildly - upset. She had no doubt that the job offer was real, having know me for six months, and was sickened that anyone could even suggest it.

I don't know for sure who started the rumour, but I have a strong suspicion and, if I'm right, it's someone who has been there since I started. The friend who told me of the rumour says it won't be anything personal, but "That's just how she is".

It's a shame that some people can only feel good by bringing others down. I bet the man who's lending us the bike tomorrow has never felt that need.

I really must find out his name.

Exercise can be bad for your health!

I don't do pain.

I don't mean that I turn into a gibbering wreck whenever someone steps on my toe, quite the opposite; I mean that I don't seem to experience pain in the same way as other people. For example, when I broke my wrist I was taken to casualty, calmly walked up to a nurse and said "I've broken me wrist"; and when I had a colposcopy, the woman before me came out in floods of tears saying it was the most painful experience of her life, but when the consultant asked me if I was ok I told him it tickled. Apparently I was the first person ever to tell him that.

I have been in pain. Once when I tore my calf muscle, and again when every intercostal muscle was stretched during surgery, which made breathing an interesting experience. But those are the only times I can think of.

So why the thoughts of pain, or lack thereof? Well, round about last October I started to get a crawling sensation over my left shoulder. When this had been going on for a few weeks it struck me that someone else might be in a fair bit of discomfort with this - and the fact that it had been with me for quite a while indicated that something was probably wrong. So I went to see my doctor.

Luckily for me, my doctor understood. But then she appeared to have read my notes and realised I didn’t seek a consultation very often. Her diagnosis was a probable trapped or pinched nerve, and I was promptly referred to a physiotherapist.

Which is where I ended up yesterday morning. In the intervening months, the sensation first first grew to be more like pins and needles, then stopped when I was off work for a week over Christmas/New Year, and restarted when I went back. How many people find their work a pain in the shoulder, I ask myself?

We went through the standard questions about age, lifestyle, etc. Was my weight steady? Unfortunately yes, I’d love to get it down, but I lack the willpower. How is my work desk organised? Correctly, with all the relevant height adjustments and wrist supports, but I do sit on the edge of my chair (at home as well). Do I do any sport or other exercise? Contemporary ballet, once a week. The physiotherapist wasn’t expecting that answer.

She wasn’t expecting the next bit either. From a standing position, I was asked to lean as far towards my feet as I could. So I put my hands on the floor. “You’ve got a very flexible lower back and hips!” “Thirty years of ballet …” And that was the start of a very thorough examination. Lifting my arms forwards and above my head, the left shoulder crunched a bit; lifting them sideways it crunched a whole lot more, going up and coming down. She held my shoulder in a different position and asked me to repeat the movement; no crunch on the way up this time, but it was still there on the downwards movement. I suddenly struck me I'd had that crunch for some time; I remember it being present every time I did the 5th port-de-bras when I was preparing for my Cecchetti elementary ballet exam, and that was more years ago than I care to admit.

Anyway, after quite a bit of examination, observation, manipulation and marking my back with small red dots (she did ask my permission first), I have a two-fold diagnosis. Firstly, because of the extreme flexibility in my lower and upper back, I tend not to use my middle back much, and it’s got tight. Secondly, my shoulder blades are not lying square, but slanting down and back; pretty much perfect ballet posture really – a gentle downwards slope of the shoulders, and breadth across the chest attained by drawing the shoulder blades inwards. And this is quite possibly either (or both) wearing the joint and pressing against the nerve.

So there I have it. The only exercise I enjoy is bad for me!

It reminds me of an acquaintance who, many years ago, argued that avocados are evidence that, if you like something, it’s either immoral, illegal or fattening – even if it’s a vegetable!

An overheard conversation

You lnow those moments when you overhear a snippet of conversation on a bus or in a coffee shop, and can't quite believe what you've heard, so strain to hear more?

Yesterday, my mother held a party to celebrate her 80th birthday, in a church hall with around 100 guests, mostly that sort of age themselves. It was towards the end of the afternoon that Luc came over to where I was putting away the empty wine bottles and told me he'd just overheard a most bizarre conversation between two women, probably a mother and daughter.

What first hooked him was the question "So how was the funeral?"

And the reply "It was wonderful!"

Then a few lines he couldn't hear, followed by

"Well, you can put him in the ground if you want. Or you can burn him. Do whatever you want"

Followed by more he couldn't hear, then

"I've buried him ..... After all, he was my rabbit!"

Finding family

I was planning to write my next entry and motorcycles, trikes and sidecars - I had even started drafting - but I got sort of sidetracked yesterday, so I'll come back to that topic another day soon. What sidetracked me was my family - or, rather, my family tree.

I started doing dome research years ago - before census information was online - when it meant going up to St Catherine's House and searching through heavy index books of birth, marriage and death certificates (although I tended not to spend too much time on deaths as I was pretty certain that most of those who had been born had, at some time or other, died).

I hit a brick wall on my mother's side quickly - not through shortage of information but quite the opposite. My mother's family is Welsh, and I can only leave you to imagine how many Williamses and Lewises with the Christian names John, William, Thomas and the like there are.

It took me slightly longer to hit a brick wall on my father's side, but when I did it was a complete stop. They came to England some time around the 1870's at a guess, and got through a fair number of surnames on the way. The family version is that, when they arrived at Harwich from Eastern Europe they couldn't spell the family name in anything other than cyrillic script, so the immigration official gave them a random surname reflecting their Jewish faith. Then there was a spell of temporary illegitimacy - by which I mean that the parents of the child married after he was born, changed his surname from the mother's to the father's, and went on to have eight more. And in 1936, that part of the family that were no longer practicing Jews changed their name by deed poll to something more English, and a number of them changed their given names at the same time.

About 18 months back, when the government's policy of shedding London-based civil servants gave me some spare time, I started some research using the online census information. This time, my mother's family fell into place quite quckly, but neither of my paternal grandparents showed up on the 1901 census; I would guess that, like a large number of East London immigrant families even now, they either got missed or deliberately left themselves off. There was no 1891 census - or, at least, there's no information from it - and going back to 1881 to look for Goldsteins in the East End with nothing more to go on was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Then a couple of weeks back I was told that my (paternal) cousin wanted to speak to me about the family. It turns out that he wants to produce a massive family tree for his parents' diamond wedding anniversary this summer, and he's going to be in my locality this weekend. I gave him what I had over the 'phone, and agreed to meet him for lunch today with anything more I managed to turn up.

So two days ago, I thought I out to have one more try on the censuses. I had just one name I hadn't searched very far with, but it was quite original; my great-grandmother, Lilian Lottie Emmins.

Within 15 minutes, I had found over a dozen of her family over three generations, but that was all the time I had. So yesterday morning I entered the new details on my online family tree, and got immediate indications of some close matches in other people's trees. Via the site, I whipped off a few emails - and very quickly got responses from four distant relatives in a family that's totally new to me! And through them, I now appear to have traceable ancestry back to the seventeenth century!

But the whole business has also shown me how complicated families and names can be, apart from the Johns known as Jack, those like Enoch Oliver (who I met when I was about ten and he must have been over 90) who went by their middle names. No, I mean those where names mutate. I already knew of one relative with the middle name of Queenie, who was named after her mother. Her mother was, of course, named Victoria. Another, of my generation, dislikes his name Jeremy so goes by Joe; his son has the middle name Joseph, so I suspect that future generations of genealogists will search fruitlessly for a non-existant father named Joseph. And I would guess that Lilian Lottie Emmins, without whom I wouldn't have nearly as much family, was named after her father's step-mother. Her name was Charlotte. I myself was named after both grandmothers; except I was given the middle name of each, narrowly avoiding Lilian Grace (no, not that Lilian, this one was Welsh).

And the mention of Grace had made me realised there's one more name I haven't researched. So if anyone happens to know much about the ancestry of Grace Eleanor Elliott, born circa 1900 in Bristol but apparently of Scottish heritage, please leave me a message.

In the mean time, I'll be thinking of motorcycles, sidecars and trikes.

Transport for (central or northern) London

Sorry, it's another winge to start the new year. I'll try to do something more fun next time.


Just before Christmas my travel wallet, containing my photocard and registered Oyster card, was stolen. This didn’t cause too much of a problem at the time as I was almost home and my Oyster card was due to expire that day so, the following morning I bought a weekly ticket and the TravelStop gave me a new Oyster card. The theft becomes important later on in the story though.

When I went back to work after the new year, I also bought a weekly ticket. And did so again a week later. That ticket expired yesterday, and I decided to get my act together and buy a monthly ticket.

For a lot of London commuters, this wouldn’t cause much in the way of difficulty. But I’m an outer London commuter, not an inner London one, and I’ve committed the terrible crime of living south of the river.

You can quite easily buy an Oyster ticket online; you don’t even get charged you for using a debit or credit card. But buying the ticket isn’t the problem; once bought, it can be validated simply by touching it in at any London underground station. Except I don’t go within about eight miles of an underground station. Alternatively, you can nominate any one of a number of mainline stations at which the Oyster ticket is to be validated … do I need to tell you I don’t go near any of those offered either?

So I’ve got to buy my travelcard in person. To quote Jeremy Clarkson, how hard can it be?

So last night I got off the train at West Croydon and joined the queue at the ticket office. A few minutes later I proffered my Oyster card and debit card, and said I’d like a monthly travelcard for zones 5 and 6. “We don’t do Oyster”. Ok, I’ll have just a plain paper ticket then. “I’ll need to see your photocard for that”.

I told you the theft of the photocard came into its own later.

So I went to the nearest Ticket Stop, because I know they can issue Oyster tickets. I queued, and a few minutes later I proffered my Oyster card and debit card, and said I’d like a monthly travelcard for zones 5 and 6. “We don’t do Oyster”.

So I caught the tram up to East Croydon station; it’s on my way home anyway. The queues for the ticket office were, as usual, massive but they have useful machines there. Useful machines from which you can buy tickets for zones 1-6, 2-6, 1-5, 2-5 … but not just zone 5 or zones 5-6.

So I got the bus home.

There’s a TicketStop that I know does Oyster tickets on my way home; it’s one stop before my actual stop, but I do sort of need to get to work ….

So once again I proffered my Oyster card and debit card and asked for a one month travelcard for zones 5 and 6. And they told me there would be a charge for using a debit card.

I rather object to paying to use a card when online card purchasers don’t get charged. So I needed cash. And the nearest cashpoint is one stop after my normal bus stop, that’s to say two stops from where I was. I walked it. In the rain. It was rather heavy rain … I think the radio news this morning said there were 47 flood warnings issued.

I got the cash, so now all I needed was a TicketStop. You’ve guessed it ….

I really didn’t feel like walking back right then, so went home. This morning, at a little before 7.00 am, it wasn’t raining as I walked past my usual bus stop to the TicketStop. I proudly proffered my Oyster card and the (newly increased) cash price of my ticket, and asked for a monthly travelcard for zones 5 and 6.

“I’m sorry, we can’t sell you a monthly ticket on this Oyster card because it isn’t registered”.

Did I mention that the theft of my registered Oyster card came into its own later?

Do Transport for London actually want people to use public transport? If so, why is it so hard to buy a ticket if you’re not in central/north London?

Just a thought, but I’ve never had this much trouble buying petrol.